The Serpent and the Scorpion (36 page)

Twenty-six

Bromley Hall
SEPTEMBER 1912

 
Samuels drew up in Bertie at the familiar gilded ironwork gate, got out, and turned his collar up against the wind as he dashed forward and opened the gates. They banged against the tall stone wall with a clang. Ursula leaned forward in the rear passenger seat and tilted her head up beneath her hat to catch a glimpse of the Wrotham family crest, mounted in all its medieval splendor upon the gate.
Sequere iustiam et invenias vitem
—Follow justice and find life.

Just beyond the gates, on either side of the driveway that led up to Bromley Hall, were the wild meadows that had once been the family’s deer park. Even now there were deer roaming free, and as Samuels drove along the way, Ursula caught glimpses of them dotted here and there, sheltered beneath the dark green elms and grazing in the open meadow. Samuels drove past the ornamental lake with its central Italianate fountain, and they followed the curved avenue until Ursula caught a glimpse of the silver-gray limestone facade of the east wing. Samuels drew up outside the wide stone staircase at the entrance. He stopped the car, pulled down his peaked cap, and alighted to assist Ursula. Following such a wet summer, the driveway was rutted into deep trenches of mud that Ursula tried gingerly to avoid as Samuels helped her out of the car.

She gazed up at the tall windows that flanked the impressive carved doorway, took a deep breath to try and compose herself, and climbed the stairs. The door opened as she got to the top.

“Miss Marlow!” Ayres could not contain his surprise.

“Good morning, Ayres,” she said, trying to keep her voice from betraying her anxiety. “Sorry to arrive unannounced, but I was wondering if Lord Wrotham was home?”

“Yes, Miss.” Ayres face returned to its usual impassive state. “He is taking one of his long walks.”

Ursula gave a small smile. “I thought he might be. Which route did he take?”

“The one to the edge of Rockingham Forest. He left almost an hour ago, so I expect he will be on his way back. Do you wish to wait in the Green Drawing Room?”

“No, Ayres, I’m going outside to find him.”

“Very good, Miss. We shall have tea ready for your return.”

Ayres, like Biggs, could always be relied upon to remain composed.

“Thank you, Ayres. I’ll see myself out the back.”

Ursula made her way through the vaulted entrance hall, through the old medieval receiving room, and down the long picture gallery to the end of the east wing. It felt strangely comforting to be back at Bromley Hall, and with each tap-tap of her walking shoes along the parquetry floor, Ursula was reminded of last summer, as if the memories had permeated the wood and stone, fixing them forever. She reached the end of the gallery and ducked out the French doors that led out onto the grand terrace. She walked quickly, trying to rid herself of the nervous energy that had built up during the long journey here. As the wind gathered strength, she buttoned up her tweed jacket and hurried on toward the avenue of cypress trees that formed a pathway to the edge of the Wrotham estate and Rockingham Forest.

The leaves were already turning on the giant English oak, and the wind sent showers of leaves into the air with each gust. Ursula pulled her jacket in tight, flapping her arms to try and release some of the tension as she strode along the path down between the cypresses and then into the fields beyond. The grass was wet beneath her feet, and her boots were soon sodden, but she was too intensely focused ahead to care. By the time she started to climb the low hillock that led up to the ruins of a mock Roman temple, the hem of her dress was saturated and muddy. From the top she gazed down on the ornamental lake that formed the border of the estate. On the other side was the dense, dark fringe of the forest. Just below her Lord Wrotham was standing by the edge of the lake, his two collies bounding joyfully around a stick that lay at his feet as they waited for him to make the next toss.

Now that she was here, she felt giddily nervous. The knot in her stomach had twisted in upon itself till she felt she would burst. The apprehension was almost unbearable, but with a deep breath she steadied herself.

At that moment, he turned and saw her.

Despite all her mental rehearsals, she was utterly unprepared for the impact of his gaze. He looked like Keats’s knight, “alone and palely loitering,” his dark hair swept back by the wind, his blue-gray eyes mirroring the bleak grim sky.

A flock of ravens wheeled above her head, and the dogs began barking madly.

“Quiet!” he ordered, and they both dropped to their haunches as she walked toward him. A gust of wind heaved and pounded the tall grass along the bank of the lake. She drew in her breath. He was waiting for her to speak.

“I’m hoping it’s not too late.”

The wind carried her words like a leaf.

He made no reply but remained as he was, immutable, like stone, standing before her. She approached him, slowly, as if in a dream.

“I’ve been a fool,” she said. “Thinking that the only way I could stand on my own was to do it without you. I’ve been fighting my own shadow. But now”—she took a deep breath—“now I’m here, as your equal, as someone who knows for a certainty what she wants.”

His eyes flickered for a moment.

“And it is you,” she continued. “Always. Forever.”

She hesitated in midstep. “Tell me it’s not too late.” This time her voice was little more than a whisper.

He looked down at the ground, and a dark lock of hair fell across his forehead. Ursula was besieged by doubts. Had she wounded him too deeply for him to trust her now? Was he weighing up the risks and deciding she wasn’t worth the gamble? Had Lady Winterton found a way into his heart? The stark outline of his countenance and the rigid set of his jaw reaffirmed all her fears. Her body began to shake; she couldn’t suppress the pain she felt at the prospect that all she hoped for had been destroyed.

Then his eyes met hers. Three strides, and he was beside her. She was in his arms, feeling the beat of his heart against hers, and the fierceness of his embrace.

“Marry me!” she demanded between their urgent kisses. He held her tight as they stumbled, still entwined, onto their knees in the wet grass. She gazed up at him as he took her face in his hands. He regarded her with searching eyes. “Really?” he asked. “Will you truly marry me?”

She looked him straight in the eyes and with fierce determination replied.

“Yes.”

 
The light was fading as they made their way back to Bromley Hall. Lord Wrotham’s two collies waited patiently at the door to the long picture gallery for Ayres, who opened the French doors, bearing a towel over one arm and a bowl of water in the other, to minister to their needs.

“Ayres!” Lord Wrotham called out. “Stop spoiling the dogs!”

He held Ursula’s hand as they climbed the long, wide steps of the terrace. “You’ll soon get used to his idiosyncrasies,” Wrotham said to her with a smile. “He hid them well when you visited last summer—but be warned, once we’re married, you’ll soon find out that this house has a way of running itself.”

“Sounds like Chester Square,” Ursula replied. Then a terrible thought hit her. “Oh, God,” she said. “What’s going to happen when Ayres meets Biggs?!”

“Hmm,” Wrotham replied as he walked through the door. “I’d better contact the Foreign Office. That requires more diplomacy than my talents allow.” He then caught sight of the look of genuine concern on Ursula’s face.

“My love,” he said, kissing her forehead lightly, “only you would be worrying about the servants just minutes after agreeing to become Lady Wrotham.”

He guided her through the door, and they followed Ayres and the dogs along the picture gallery toward the Green Drawing Room.

“The dowager has been down,” Ayres informed them calmly as he opened the door to the Green Drawing Room. Lord Wrotham hesitated at the threshold.

“She decided to return to her rooms, my lord, until dinner is called,” Ayres assured him. “But after hearing of Miss Marlow’s arrival, she has left you one or two items on the drawing room table.”

Lord Wrotham raised an eyebrow. “What could my mother have possibly—?” He left the question unfinished.

“I believe one is a draft of the betrothal notice she wishes to have placed in the
Times
,” Ayres replied, a faint smile playing at the edges of his mouth. “The other is a suggested guest list for the wedding breakfast.”

Ursula’s eyes widened. She had half expected the dowager to take to her room in a fit of horror at the thought of her son marrying the daughter of a coal miner’s son, but it seemed that the expediency of wealth won out. The entire household must have guessed what Ursula’s unannounced arrival precipitated, and the dowager, ever the Machiavellian pragmatist, was determined to take advantage at once.

Lord Wrotham was unperturbed.

“See,” he said with a deadpan expression. “I told you Mother would be pleased.”

Twenty-seven

NOVEMBER 1912

 
Ursula and Lord Wrotham sat down at a corner table in the opulent Palm Court of the Ritz Hotel. It was one of their first public outings as a betrothed couple, and it amused Ursula to see the reaction of London society, even though for most of last year the gossip mongers had already chewed over the details of their relationship until it was little more than gristle for the penny weeklies. This time was different. Although members of polite society still regarded Ursula as something of an oddity—a twenty-five-year-old heiress, suffragette, and businesswoman was certainly not the norm in Belgravia—she had garnered a modicum of respect for her deal with Peter Vilensky and Hugh Carmichael. Lord Wrotham remained the bastion of the conservative aristocracy, but the ladies were more than a little intrigued by his choice of a wife—perhaps beneath that cold exterior beat a passionate heart after all. Together they obtained a certain degree of notoriety that now appealed to society’s penchant for the eccentric.

Ursula tilted her chin and gazed across at him beneath her Italian hat of black tulle with pink roses.

“I have something for you,” she said with a smile, “from Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith.”

He looked up from the menu, raised one eyebrow, and said, “It’s not another one of her appalling lists, is it? The last one suggested a four-foot-high wedding cake, a series of betrothal dinners hosted by my mother, and a honeymoon in Monte Carlo.”

“No, nothing like that. . . . It’s a list of houses in Mayfair she thought we might like to look at.” Ursula’s lips twitched.

Lord Wrotham placed his menu down on the table and sighed.

“Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith has been talking to my mother again.”

“So it would seem.”

Ever since she had heard of their engagement, the dowager had been angling for Lord Wrotham to find himself a new home, one not only suitable for his new bride but also where his mother could spend the London season. Given the dowager’s intemperance where money was concerned, Ursula calculated that if she came to London unrestrained, Ursula’s entire wealth could be dissipated in a matter of weeks.

“So what are your plans for the afternoon?” he asked, anxious to change the subject.

Ursula wrinkled her nose.

“Well, I thought we might meet up with some suffragette friends and smash a few windows on Regent Street. I’ve been out of practice since the summer. Then it’s afternoon tea with some Bolsheviks at the Rose and Anchor—”

“And after that?” Lord Wrotham asked dryly.

“After that,” Ursula replied, “I’m all yours.”

Epilogue

JANUARY 1913

 
Ursula and Lord Wrotham returned to Chester Square after an afternoon spent wandering through the National Gallery. A shallow mist had settled along the gardens in the square, hovering above the ground, hinting that ice might form overnight.

Biggs met them at the front door and led them inside to the roaring fire set in the front parlor. Ursula shrugged off her cashmere coat and hat and handed them to Biggs before flinging her gloves on the table and sitting down with a laugh.

“I don’t see what you could possibly find to object to. Eugenie Mahfouz is excellent company, and as long as we make some temporary adjustments to Bromley Hall, she and all her harem can stay for as long as they’d like.”

Lord Wrotham walked over and warmed his hands over the fire.

“I suppose her husband will be giving a series of lectures while he is here. No doubt on the evils of the British Empire.”

“No doubt,” Ursula replied lightly.

“Well,” Lord Wrotham said, “I know there’s no way I’m going to change your mind, so I guess I may as well accept my fate. No chance that I could stay at the Carlton Club all spring instead, is there?”

“Not a chance. Unless you’d like to take your mother with you, of course. . . .”

Lord Wrotham shot her a withering glance.

Biggs returned with the day’s mail and placed the bundle of letters down on the mahogany side table.

“Will that be all, Miss?” He addressed Ursula and she smiled. Even though she was soon to marry, he continued to acknowledge her as mistress of the house, refusing to treat Lord Wrotham as anything other than a guest until such time as the two households and two sets of servants merged.

“Yes, thank you, Biggs,” Ursula replied, as she reached over and grabbed the mail. She leaned back in the chair, unbuttoned her tweed jacket, and started sorting through the letters.

“Why, there’s one here from Peter Vilenksy,” she exclaimed. Although her relationship with Peter Vilensky was now cordial, she would have expected him to communicate with her only via Lord Wrotham. She hoped his letter did not herald bad news.

“Has he left Palestine?” Lord Wrotham asked. Ursula shook her head, scanning the handwritten pages.

“No, he’s still in Jaffa. But he says the memorial to Katya and Arina has been completed. He and Baruh have placed it in the center of the new settlement. There are nearly fifty families living there now. Isn’t that wonderful?”